


What's A Girl Like You Doing in a Place Like This?

by Hoodoo



Series: The Bar at the End of the Universe [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Are You Using Rick(s) Or Is He Using You?, Bar, Bedrooms, Blow Jobs, Double Penetration, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Five Guys One Girl, Gangbang, Military Kink, Name-Calling, Obedience Expected, PWP-ish, Sixsome, Sluttiness, Surprise Kissing, Vaginal Sex, Wet & Messy, mostly just pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-01 00:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12693741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: Bartending gives you the opportunity to meet--and hook up with--Ricks.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s called The Bar at the End of the Universe, but you don’t think the owner is well-read enough to deliberately have parodied Douglas Adams’ restaurant and novel.

You were hired because you could speak a few languages—not that it mattered, with the universal translator hard-wired into the sound system—and don’t mind wiping up various bodily fluids if someone had too much to drink or if a few someones decided to beat the hell out of each other.

Also to your credit is the ability to put up with Ricks.

The Bar at the End of the Universe is a semi-out of the way, semi-dive, easily accessible throughout dimensions. Ricks weren’t always there, but showed up regularly.

Tonight mid-way through your shift the crowd was moderate and the noise level from the jukebox just shy of needing to shout, and a group of them walked in.

Like with all the patrons, you gave them a once-over glance. With their body armor, varying hair styles, and military bearing, you decided to keep a closer watch on them than typical. You knew the bar’s bouncer would do the same.

They congregated at one of the pool tables and started a raucous game. One, with an eye patch, was repeatedly berated he had no depth perception so he needed to get the beers and not fuck up the game. He gave as good as he got, calling the rest of them pussies because they knew he’d wipe the floor with them, even as he flipped them off walking to the bar.

He leaned lightly against it and demanded, “Service here, sweetcheeks?” 

You lift your chin to acknowledge you heard him but finish filling the glass at the tap for another patron before walking over.

“Help you, sir?” With the military getup, you figured adding “sir” might make an impression.

Eyepatch doesn’t hide eyeing you up and down. “Gonna need a r-round for the boys. Something IPA on tap, none-none of that fucking pumpkin shit or w-whatever.”

“Yes sir. I can have someone bring them over.”

“Nah, I’ll wait-stay here.”

You shrug, like you don’t care that he’s still looking at you like a piece of meat, and head back to the taps. You give your hips just a bit of extra sway as you go. You’ve learned that Ricks like the shape of your ass. You forgo a flip of the hair, however; you’ve also learned which ones prefer maturity over college-age.

Filling his order, then taking another and filling it before setting the five beers on a tray for him—just because you know making him wait sparks just a little bit of rage, which makes him more likely to talk to you some more—you carry them back to where he’s standing. 

If he’s slightly fuming, he’s hiding it well.

“Sorry about the wait, sir. Kinda busy here tonight.”

He snorts. “I’m SEAL team, sweetcheeks. I know how to be patient before getting the reward.”

You laugh and offer him the tray. He declines it, which you knew he would, and although you know you should get a waitress to take the order and not leave the bar unattended, you shoulder it and walk out onto the floor. He leads you back to the pool table where the rest of his group is still playing.

All but the one taking the shot take a glass from you. The same appreciative look Eyepatch gave you is echoed here, and you catch the one with the shaved head and the one who styles his hair most like a typical Rick throw each other a wordless—but meaningful—side glance. 

The final beerless Rick finishes his shot, and comes over to get his glass too.

“Th-thanks, babydoll,” he tells you, slipping a hand to your hip and giving it a squeeze.

SEAL team trained or not, Ricks all have varying levels of restraint.

“Any time, sirs. Be sure to let me when you want something more,” you tell them, and saunter back to the bar.

You don’t have to imagine what they’re saying to each other. 

Over the next few hours, you give them more rounds. Each time another comes to the bar to order, instead of calling over a waitress. Cornrows, who’d already had a feel of your hip, can’t help brushing your hair away from your face. You catch Shaved Head Rick adjusting the crotch of his pants when you turn back to him, and Mohawk flirts a little more like a normal guy, which is slightly weird. 

You continue to serve other customers while keeping half an eye on the group. They dominate the pool table, and even through the competitive ribbing and standard vulgar put-downs, they have obviously been a team for a while. It’s not common for a group of Ricks to work so closely together and actually seem to trust one another.

From the corner of your eye, you see the normal-haired Rick—the one with a mismatched eye, you’d discovered—pull them in closer and talk too quietly for you to even begin to make out his words. 

The glances your way telegraph them, however. 

A few minutes after the conference, Eyepatch makes his way back over to the bar. He leans casually until you come back to him.

“Another round, sir?” you ask, even though you know they aren’t finished with their last.

“Nah. Just-just wondering what to do for fun around-around here.”

You don’t drop your gaze from his. “Seems like you found the pool table.”

There’s a hitch in his breath, like he didn’t expect you to give a glib answer, then he gestures you closer. Complying, you put your elbows on the bar and lean in. The position puts your cleavage on display, which you know he notices by the way the tip of his tongue touches the corner of his mouth. 

“Let me be more clear,” he says more quietly, forcing you to move yourself even closer to him to hear. This close, and he’s barely speaking above a whisper. “What do _you_ do for f-f-fun around here?”

You flick your glance to his. He’s waiting patiently, as he said, with a slight smirk on his face. He’s not nervous or tense or practically tripping over his own words, like that Rick with the bowl-cut and overbite had been when he managed to scrounge enough courage to proposition you.

Still, no need to make this easy. “Asking for yourself, or another Rick?”

His smirk widens. “How about _five_ Ricks, sweetcheeks?”

Ricks always managed to surprise you. Surprise, and excite. Now your breath is caught in your chest, and a hot feeling blossoms in your gut.

“I’m off work at two,” you reply.

It’s enough answer for him, and he ambles back to his group.

The owner of The Bar at the End of the Universe was happy to have you on staff because you could handle the insanity that could happen here, but you considered picking up Ricks a pretty damn nice benefit.


	2. Chapter 2

Last call has come and gone, you’ve wiped down the bar a final time and helped upend all the chairs so the early shift can sweep up.

It’s quiet and dark without customers. The bouncer mentions there may still be a few Ricks hanging around, but you quell his worry by telling him you’ll be okay; that sometimes if Ricks have had too much to drink they can’t program their portal guns correctly and you’ve been around enough of them to help make sure they get back to their dimension safe and sound.

Whether or not he accepts your flimsy excuse, you don’t know or care. He gives you a final wave and heads out the back. You go to the front door, lock it securely behind yourself, and turn to find Cornrows right beside you.

“Babydoll, I-I-I didn’t think you’d make it!”

“I _told_ you she would, dipshit!” Eyepatch crows, and there’s laughter.

“Yeah, yeah. Babydoll, if you’d like-if you’d step this way, to my associates—“

Cornrows slips his hand around your waist, tucking his fingers into the back pocket of your jeans to guide you to the rest of the group.

They crowd around you. You aren’t typically intimidated by Ricks, but that was because you were one on one with them, not surrounded by five who looked hungry. Cornrows hasn’t really released you, Shaved Head is still not being shy about having a hand on the bulge in his crotch, and Eyepatch elbows Cornrows to get a step closer. 

Mismatched Eyes breaks the silence with, “We doing this thing, or not?”

You look up at him directly. “Portal gun?” you demand, with an outstretched hand.

The others glance at each other like they can’t believe you’re so brazen, but he doesn’t hesitate. Producing the portal gun, he holds it up. You make an impatient movement with your hand, but he doesn’t relinquish it.

“Fat chance, g-girly. Just give me-tell me the coordinates and we’ll be g-g-going.”

You fix him with stare, which makes a couple of them glance at one another for different reasons—apprehension or delight? It doesn’t matter. Instead of giving in, however, you slip out of Cornrows half-embrace and stand dangerously close to Mismatched. Taking the elbow of the arm holding the gun, you point the business end out of the group. Then, sliding your hand between his arm and body so your forearms are touching—like you’re going to take his arm and be escorted—you punch in the coordinates yourself.

You only partially lied to your co-worker. The only thing you’ve ever done with a portal gun is enter your personal information.

Looking back up at the Rick holding the gun and without another glance at the keypad, you hit the enter button. 

The familiar eddying greens of the portal dilate near the group.

“Smart ass,” Mismatched accuses. You can almost hear affectionate humor in his voice. 

“You know you like it, sir,” you tell him, and there are chuckles all around. “Let’s go.”

The Ricks start heading in without even asking where they’re going. The portal swallowed them indifferently.

Mohawk is third to last, before you. He asks, “You really-are you cool with this?”

You give him an honest, heart-felt answer. “Fuck yes!”

He grins, grabs your hand, and pulls you through. Mismatched Eyes is on your heels, and once he’s completely in, the portal closes behind all of you in your bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3

Your bedroom isn’t huge, but even if it was, five Ricks would have filled it with their egos anyway. Now, still in the middle of the group of them, it’s practically claustrophobic. Oddly, even though this is the most you’ve had in your room at once, you don’t find that an issue.

Mohawk barely gives you time to catch your breath. He spins on you and presses his mouth on yours, forcing his tongue between your lips.  


It’s unexpected but not unwelcome and your tongue meets his.

“Shit, you’re su-such a romantic,” one of them chides sarcastically and another snorts, but he continues, kissing you deeply.

When his attentions seem to be taking too long for the others, however, they don’t hesitate to start putting hands on you: feeling, pinching, groping. The feel of so many at once, all over you—from snapping the elastic in your bra strap to shamelessly cupping your ass—is intoxicating. That bloom of excited heat expands from the small bubble smoldering your stomach up into your chest, and suddenly, you can’t wait for this to really start.

You moan into Mohawk’s mouth.

“Oh yeah,” he mutters back.

Out of the blue, something cold is pressed to your lower back. It’s startling, and you throw a glance back to Mismatched Eyes behind you.

“You totally in love with-married to this shirt?” he asks.

“N-no,” you stutter in return. 

“Good.”

And without further hesitation, he slices through the back of your tank top with the knife he had positioned under it. The cold back edge of the blade leaves a trail up beside your spine, and you shiver.

He chuckles in your ear. “S-scared?”

“No,” you say, hoping he doesn’t call your bluff. Twisting around to face him, you continue, “I’m fucking _turned on.”_

He does a casual flipping of the knife to keep the honed edge away from you and makes the blade disappear again. “Slutty, then, huh?”

You aren’t bullied or ashamed. “For you, Rick.”

Like throwing gasoline on a fire, those three words ignite them all. 

Working in tandem, your bra is unlatched and pushed off your shoulders by Mohawk then stripped away by Mismatched Eyes, who cups your breasts and rolls your nipples. Mohawk presses against your back and moves your hair to drape over one shoulder while he latches is mouth to the other side of your neck. The slight feel of teeth plus the attention your nipples are getting makes you moan. You deliberately keep your eyes locked on Mismatched’s and don’t miss the drool that starts to accumulate under his lip.

Reaching for him, he allows you to wipe it away. 

Somebody bumps your knee, so you grasp Mohawk’s waist behind you and grab for Mismatched’s shoulder so you don’t fall to the side.

You’re supported as one of them picks up a foot to remove your shoe, then shifted so the other can join its mate tossed into a corner of the room. Still sandwiched between Mohawk and Mismatched, you briefly wonder how your jeans are going to come off. 

There’s a bit of jostling behind you, a muttered, “Move it, asshole! Stop mono-monopolizing!”, and the mouth at your neck is gone, leaving a cool wet patch. New hands take your waist and you’re spun again. Mohawk’s been replaced by Cornrows, who’s also drooling but doesn’t kiss you. He gives you a shit-eating grin and pulls a something that must have been a judo move on you so suddenly you’re not standing any longer, but twisted and flipped.

You land prone on the bed, and once again you’re the center of attention in the middle of five Ricks. 

Shaved Head, Mohawk and Eyepatch are already in various states of undress. Cornrows, between your legs, uses a gloved hand to pinch an already erect nipple as he looks down on you. He casually wipes his forearm across his mouth and asks,

“What about-about these pants?”

You can see the wheels turning in his head and hurry to shimmy out of them. Having a tank top cut off you is one thing; but on a bartender’s salary jeans are expensive.

Lifting your hips to slip out of your panties, you apparently aren’t moving quickly enough because Cornrows grabs them and rips them off, tossing them carelessly aside. You note that they’re snagged out of the air and stuffed into Mismatched’s pocket, but before you can protest or make a snide comment about it, Cornrows drops to his knees between your thighs and runs his tongue in a thick path up your pussy.

“Oh _fuck—“_ you gasp, and he presses his whole mouth to you.

Facial hair on a Rick does something primal to you, especially when he uses it to his advantage while going down on you. His mustache provides a bit of a tickling counterpart sensation to his tongue, and you can’t help grabbing the side of his head even if you can’t form any words. 

The others laugh and a shifting of the mattress brings you at least partially back to the fact it’s not just you and Rick eating you out. 

Opening your eyes even as you continue to gasp, you see Mohawk kneeling beside you. He’s stroking himself off, and when he sees you notice him, he raises his eyebrow in a not-unreadable suggestion.

Obligingly, you twist a little on the bed—but oh god you do not want to dislodge Cornrows!—and Mohawk guides his cock into your mouth.

As nice as he was earlier, with the flirting and kissing, he isn’t easygoing here. Awkward position or not, he forces most of his cock passed your lips. You grasp the base to prevent him from choking you, which makes him chuckle, then he does it again.

“Th-th-that’s right, baby, take it—“

Between a cock in your mouth and the heavy sensations from your pussy, it’s hard to breathe.

Them, being Ricks, notice this.

It suddenly occurs to you they haven’t been mute either, you’ve just been too distracted by what’s happening to you.

Someone is muttering, “Fuck yeah, fuck!”, another is instructing Cornrows to not forget your ass because he’s going to fuck you hard, and someone else is moaning wordlessly. That’s Mohawk; his encouragement disintegrated once you had a second to take a breath. You’ve not been neglectful to his cock and have sucked it with a little more force. 

However, without looking at each of them, it’s hard to determine who said what.

It makes no difference. Cornrows heard the order to not overlook your entire nether region, and slips his hands under your hips to tongue your ass as well. The sensation makes you jump, which makes them laugh again.

You have to yank away from Mohawk for a moment for air again but keep one hand wrapped around him. When you turn slightly away, another cock is there. 

“Hey, sweetcheeks,” Eyepatch says. You look passed his erection up to his face.

When he sees he has your attention, he deliberately wipes his fingers through the drool on his lower lip. Making sure you’re still watching, he reaches to your pussy and slips those fingers directly on your clit. 

Mindless of what Cornrows’ mouth is doing, you buck and cry out.

With one hand on a cock and another still gripping Cornrow, you orgasm.

Before you can catch your breath, however, Mohawk forces you to turn back and fills your mouth again.

Eyepatch is gone from beside you. You expect Shaved Head to take his place, and you have no idea where Mismatched Eyes may be in the room, but the only thing that happens is that Cornrows slips away from between your legs. Mohawk doesn’t give you a chance to regroup and with the short break you can focus directly on his cock.

“Yeah—like that, b-baby—fuck—“

When a wet hand touches your knee, you glance down.

Eyepatch is between your legs now. He runs a finger lightly through the wet folds of your pussy, sending an electric shock to your core. 

“It’s n-nice to see you’re a natural redhead,” he approves.

You stop blowing Mohawk, which makes him groan in frustration.

“You’re welcome,” you gasp sarcastically to Eyepatch. “Now fuck me Rick!”

He smirks but a flush creeps up his cheeks. Once again there are chuckles throughout the room. He licks his hand, gives his cock a twist to lubricate it, and guides the tip on the same path his fingers took. The head of his cock puts a heavier pressure on your clit and you gasp.

“You’re so fucking sensitive,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like an insult.

Watching himself, Eyepatch finds the right spot to be and pushes into you.

“Oh god!”

“God nothing, sweetcheeks—“ Eyepatch grunts, “—just all me.”

Only Rick Sanchez would refuse to even give a nod to god while fucking. He slips his hands around your thighs and pulls you closer to the edge of the bed—almost too far, your ass is practically hanging off—which makes Mohawk snarl, 

“Asshole—I was almost there!”

It doesn’t even make Eyepatch pause in his thrusting. “Shut up. I like to watch her tits bounce while I fuck-fuck her and her holding-trying to hold on to your tiny dick makes it hard to-to-to see them—“

That’s entirely too much talking, even for a Rick, so you reach forward and scrape your fingernails down his lean chest. You don’t scratch him hard enough to actually break skin, but he’s so pale thin red trails erupt. It’s something you discovered that some of them love—

“—oh fuck, oh fuck, yeah—“ Eyepatch interrupts himself, watching your hand create stinging tracks on his front.

He’s one who likes it, so you do it again, cross-ways.

“—yeah, _shit—”_

“Christ, between him kissing her up and him getting into her cat-scratching him—“

You don’t catch the rest of the complaint with blood pounding in your ears and your breath catching in your throat. Mohawk takes your chin again, but you can’t blow him, not while being fucked vigorously almost to the point of orgasm.

You don’t get a chance to get there, though; Eyepatch is suddenly erratic with his movements. His hips stutter and with a gasping, desperate sound he buries himself deeply in you as he comes.

Typically the world shrinks when it’s just you and one other Rick, but with four more still in your bedroom, you don’t get the luxury of a breather.

Eyepatch takes a shaky step backwards, pulling out of you unceremoniously. Without support, your feet automatically drop to the floor, catching yourself in an awkward position. Come drips out of you, making your already wet pussy even slicker. Before you have a chance to stand up or drop a hand down to wipe a little of the wet away, Shaved Head takes Eyepatch’s place. 

“Enough-enough of the virgin shit,” he says brusquely. “Turn over.”

You push yourself up and obey. He keeps your feet on the floor but allows you to prop yourself up on your elbows. You reach for Mohawk, who shuffles on his knees to you, and you lick his cock again. He grins down at you. Unhurriedly you start to suck him; this time he lets you set the pace.

Shaved Head, meanwhile, slips his fingers through your pussy, and smears the collected come over the puckered muscle of your ass. You flinch, a little concerned about the possibility he’s going to simply fuck you there, but worrying is only going to make it worse so you deliberately force yourself to relax and focus on the cock in front of you.

One thin finger eases its way into your ass.

“Tight, baby,” he murmurs behind you.

“Don’t be a dick,” Shaved Head is reprimanded by someone.

It really is hard to tell who is saying what if you’re not looking at them.

“Sweetcheeks, you got lube somewhere?”

You take a second to swallow before answering, “Nightstand. Top drawer.”

You gesture and look that direction, as if they wouldn’t be able to find it, and catch Cornrows' eyes. 

“Come up here, Rick,” you suggest.

He sheds the last of his clothing and joins you and Mohawk on the mattress. Two cocks should help distract you even more, you reason.

There’s the soft sound of a plastic cap being unscrewed, and a wet sound, and a dollop of cold lube drops down the crack of your ass, startling you.

You jump and say loudly, “Jesus, Rick! What the fuck!”

The other four laugh and Shaved Head apologizes—he actually sounds sincere—and gently runs his fingers through it as if to soothe away the cold.

You know what to expect next, so you turn your concentration back to the two in front of you, alternating deep-throating one then the other. They hold your hair back when strands get stuck in your mouth and groan when it’s their turn to have your attention lavished on them.

The lube is warmer now, or at least not shockingly cold. That finger finds its way back inside, and when Shaved Head can feel you relax he adds another. As vocally eager as he’d been for ass-fucking, you are glad he’s taking his time. It’s been a long time since you’ve done anything anal, and this slow pace is making it easier.

With more ministrations and lube—even warmer this time—you finally relax enough for a third finger. It makes you pause blowing the two kneeling before you, dropping your head and moaning. As if to pacify you, your hair is petted. 

The mattress shifts again, dipping to your left, and you open your eyes to find Eyepatch laying on his side next to you.

“Maybe this’ll h-help,” he offers, and reaches under you to put heavy pressure on your clit.

You cry out. There’s no movement from his hand, just steady, relentless weight on your most pleasurable spot. Your eyelids flutter but you see the smirk that crosses his face before you can’t keep them open any longer. 

While you’re preoccupied by him, Shaved Head wasn’t idle. He grunts, “Ready?” and in another second his fingers are gone. More warmed lube globs onto you and you try to make yourself slack and relaxed for what is next.

Rick’s fingers are slender, but even three are a poor substitution for the head of his cock as it breaches you. The sound you make this time is sharp and from the murmur above and beside you, you can tell there’s some worry. But you lick your lips and manage a shaky smile and nod to reassure them, which dissolves again into a keening moan as Shaved Head continues moving forward.

“God _damn_ you’re tight!” he pants. “Oh shit, baby—“

“Can you handle it, old man?” someone snickers.

“Fuck you!”

There’s a snort. “Fuck her, if you don’t c-c-come in ten seconds.”

Luckily Shaved Head doesn’t rise to that bait. He takes his deliberate time, slowly stretching you without making it too painful. You’d kiss and praise him if you were alone with him, but surrounded by other Ricks, you only gasp quietly.

Suddenly, his movement stops, and he’s seated deeply inside you.

“Okay, sweetcheeks?” Eyepatch asks, close to your ear.

You open your eyes. “Y-yeah!”

“Fuck you’re hot,” he tells you. “Watching you suck their dicks, w-watching you get fucked, fucking you—how’d we get so lucky?”

His sweet talk was meant to distract you. It worked. While a rabble of butterflies tied themselves into knots in your stomach as he spoke, Shaved Head started a slow pace. You cry out again, but less sharply and from more pleasure. 

Eyepatch glances down your body as Shaved Head continues slightly faster. 

“How’s that? Good? Fuck, that’s so hot—now suck him off, make him come,” he orders, and you can do nothing but obey.

Caught between the group, your tempo is set by Shaved Head behind you. You do your best to alternate sucking the two cocks in front of you, but try as you might, the sensations of being fucked in the ass plus having fingers tangled in your hair plus Eyepatch still applying a combination of relentless pressure and teasing little flicks to your clit—

An orgasm rushes you, practically blindsiding you, and you choke out a gasping cry and can’t hold yourself up on your elbows any more.  
It’s intense and for a moment you can’t even tell if anyone is saying anything or if there’s any movement around—or in—you. When the blood pounding in your ears finally slows a little and you’re partially able to catch your breath, you hear a low murmur between all the Ricks but still can’t make out their words.

With trembling arms, you raise yourself back up.

Eyepatch, still beside you and looking as flushed as he did when he fucked you, wipes his cool fingers over your forehead, then across his own chin. “Okay, sweetcheeks? Need a break?”

For the first time this night, you snort in mild contempt. It’s not as harsh coming from you, looking sweaty, red-faced, and generally disheveled, but his eyebrows go up in true approval. 

“Is it going to make me sound too much like a slut if I say no?” you ask. 

From the continued murmurs all around, you know the answer is no, and that makes you feel impudent and daring. You’ve been pretty passive so far, allowing them to do what they want to you. Pushing boundaries may backfire with these military Ricks, but you reason nothing ventured means nothing gained. 

You throw a glance back at Shaved Head, who is still inside you but had the grace to stop moving.

“New position?” you suggest.

In response, he pulls out with a groan.

You do take a second before standing up, and when you do, you can feel all the excess lube running down your inner thighs. Ignoring it, you gesture for Shaved Head to lie back on the bed. The three on the mattress move as he complies. He picks up his head to watch you crawl over him.

He hasn’t kissed you, but laying chest to chest with him, you press your mouth on his. He makes a sound deep in his throat, but you can’t tell if it’s because he likes it or if it’s a warning. You don’t care, and lap at his lips with your tongue. The quick movement startles him, and his jaw loosens in response. You take the opportunity to dip in further, and he grabs your upper arms.

You’re tempted to push this kiss further, but are interrupted by Cornrows saying, 

“How come-why does he get all the fun?”

You lift your eyes to his. “Oh, I don’t want you to get left out! What if Rick here continues to fuck me in the ass, and you come around and fuck my pussy? You think you can handle double penetration?”

Below you, Shaved Head sucks in a breath, like he’s shocked. You drop your gaze to lock eyes on his.

“Who’s the virgin now?” you ask cheekily, and kiss him deeply.

In his surprise, he lets you.

You break it off before he can either push you away or decide to hold you closer. 

Since there’s been no protest of your suggestion from anyone, you sit up and direct him. “Scoot to the edge of the bed. I’m going to lay back on you, okay?”

Wordlessly, he agrees by moving where you instructed him. You’ve had enough experiences with Ricks to know that even though they’re scrawny they’re stronger than they look, and with their SEAL training Shaved Head should have no problem supporting you. 

Once he’s into a better position, you straddle his thighs. It takes you a second to re-lube yourself and then very gradually ease back down onto him. He groans and you pant, and once you’re comfortable you lean back, bracing yourself with rigid arms. He sputters for a moment before you can move your hair out of his face. 

He reaches around you to cup your breasts and pinch you nipples. You jerk in response. The movement rocks your whole body, which in turn makes him groan again. You can feel the noise vibrate through his chest. You smile, even though he can’t see it, and deliberately rotate your hips just so he does it again.

He can’t get much leverage from the position he’s in, but he can’t seem to help but try to thrust into you. You chuckle, and glance backwards. Mohawk and Cornrows are still sitting there, gently stoking themselves, looking down over your body.

“Well?” you gasp, as Shaved Head manages to move a little into you. “Care to join in?”

Shaved Head tweaks your nipples a little harder, making you twitch again. You could imagine him directing your movements on top of him this way, if you two were alone. To placate him, you roll your pelvis. He responds with an open-mouthed moan.

You try to smile, but Cornrows is already between your legs, spreading them wider, and with a bit of wiggling and a push forward, his cock is in your pussy.

Your smile is interrupted by your own crying moan. 

Without asking if you’re ready, Cornrows fucks you. 

You would have been happy to continue blowing Mohawk, but two Ricks fucking you at once is too much to handle—you’re no porn star, after all. With pleasure rocketing through your body, you can’t even keep your eyes open or control the wanton sounds you’re making. From the thrusting, your arms ache, and Shaved Head below pulls you downward until you can’t resist and hold yourself up any longer. You lie down completely prone onto his chest.

The new angle, impossibly, is more amazing. Stars flash behind your closed eyelids. You can barely catch your breath. Cornrows pauses for a moment, just to change things up, then makes a small stutter-movement.

If he’s coming, you can’t tell, because you climax again, a tsunami of bliss rolling through your body. You arch your back involuntarily and Shaved Head below you cries out, 

“Oh _f-fuck!”_

His hands clench too tightly on your tits this time, cutting through some of the pleasure. 

There’s a sudden chill and emptiness between your legs. Cranking your eyes open, you glance down to see Cornrows stepping backward, cock still hard but obviously dripping the last bit of semen from the slit. He’s working to catch his breath too.

You’re still shaky, but make a small movement to peel yourself off Shaved Head. 

“W-w-wait a sec, babydoll,” Cornrows manages to saw. “You’re not gonna leave Rick hanging, are-are you?”

As he asks, he gestures passed you, and finally Mohawk clambers off the bed. Before you can say yes or no or just give me a second, you’re filled once again.

You’re so wet and sloppy, with lube and come dripping from you. There’s little friction as Mohawk enters you, but with Shaved Head still not having lost his erection in your ass, it still feels almost too much to take. 

You knew he was a talker already—as so many Ricks were—based on how he acted while you were blowing him, and he amped it up while thrusting into you.

“Fuck, fuck—you’re so tight, baby, how can y-you be so tight after—holy fuck—“

He keeps up his running commentary of obscenities and praise as he slams into you. 

“—your pussy’s so _wet_ —fuck yeah, so wet, and so fucking tight—“

You can’t even begin to respond to him. One on one, maybe, begging him to keep fucking you, asking for it harder, whatever it took to keep the sensations mounting. But here, in this situation, the pleasure is almost to the point of painful. Tears form in the corners of your eyes. Wordlessly you moan and thrash and cry, which spurs him anyway.

“—gonna fill you up again, gonna come—ready for my load, baby? Ready? Oh, oh _fuuuck—“_

His words dissolve into a gasping yowl as he delivers what he promised. Unlike Cornrows, he stays buried in you as he rides out his orgasm. The feeling of two cocks in you is still a burning high, but you’re too exhausted to move and capitalize on it.

Finally, Mohawk steps back slightly. You groan as he slips out of you, and make a second noise flavored with disappointment when he helps you peel yourself off Shaved Head. 

Shaved Head makes a similar sound coming out of you too.

Placed on your feet, you’re left to your own devices while tissues are passed around, and you don’t trust your knees enough to try and move yet. You must look like hell—sweaty, hair tangled, a combination of slick lube and come dripping unsexily down your legs—and you’re tired, but this was well worth it. 

You close your eyes and sway in place, smiling dreamily to yourself while the group shuffles around commending themselves and mocking each other just like the pool game. Someone asks where the washroom is—

Suddenly, a gloved hand cups your chin, and fingers wipe through the tear-tracks on your cheeks.

“Hey.”

You open your eyes and Mismatched Eyes is standing in front of you. In all the activity, it dawns on you he hadn’t participated! Your eyes widen as you take in that he’s still completely dressed, even.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to break this chapter up a little since it's about 16 pages of straight up smut. Don't fret; there's one more Rick to go in this shamelessness!


	4. Chapter 4

“Rick! Oh my gosh—“

His hand slipped from your chin to the junction of your neck and shoulder. It tightens painfully and he spits, “W-what happened to the ‘sir’?” 

“I’m sorry Rick—sir! I’m sorry sir!”

“Get on your knees.”

There’s no sense of appreciation. There’s no hint of concern. The order and delivery of it are meant to be obeyed, and you’ve learned from being around enough Ricks that if they act like this, there’s to be no pushback or bid for dominance on your part. Shaky or not, exhausted or not, you drop in front of him. The Ricks left in the room are quiet and still. 

“Sit up straight. Hands at your sides.”

You comply. 

There’s unnerving silence in your bedroom now. Mismatched Eyes stands at military ease in front of you. Your gaze is thigh level with him, so by the tenting of his pants you can see he’s aroused, but why doesn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he join in with the rest? Was it something you did? Was it something you didn’t do? You can’t fathom what he may want—

You don’t move your head, but your eyes flick up his body and briefly meet his. He’s staring down hard at you, and you work not to flinch.

Finally he makes a show of critically looking you over and says disdainfully, “You’re trembling. You’re filthy. There’s so much jizz dr-dripping out of you you’re gonna-gonna have to replace this rug. You’re ob-obviously tired but thr-trilled, and I _bet_ even as sore as you are, you won’t be able-able to keep your fingers out of your pussy when we leave.”

He’s spoken the truth. “Yes sir. No, sir.”

He snorts. “You really-really are a slut for me, aren’t you?”

This time you meet his gaze steadily and a small smile flits on your face. “Yes sir.”

The harsh set to his features soften for a moment, and you almost dare to grin and make a pithy comment. Before you have the opportunity, however, he leans into your face and barks,

“Then you’ve done a shitty job getting me off! Every-everyone else has busted their nut and shot their wad in you, and here I am, still fully clothed!” 

Spit isn’t just collected on his lower lip: this time beads of it hit you in the face.

“I’m s-sorry, sir! I-I—“

“No fucking excuses!” he interrupts, his voice louder. “Open-open your l-legs but do not get up! I want you to kneel there in that pool of come-in that jizz and you’re going to suck me off like the slut you are—“

There’s a brief pause while he works the buckle of his belt and fly. He doesn’t remove any clothing, only pushes his pants down mid-thigh. The blend of military uniform with his cock exposed is something unexpected and oddly rousing.

“Well, slut?” he asks in your pause. “What are you waiting for?”

You’ve slid into the position he demanded, on your knees with your legs spread, arms and hands still at your sides. You don’t know how he wants it. Slow and teasing? Begging? Worshipful? You don’t want to do it wrong, but he’s not given you any indication of what he’d prefer—

“Goddamn it!” he snarls in your hesitation. “Give me your hands!”

You raise your arms in offering to him. Roughly he grabs your wrists and hauls your arms upward, straight up to his chest. You shift to start to get to your feet, but he says,

“I didn’t tell you to-to get up! I told you to suck my cock!”

In the awkward position of kneeling but being pulled upward, you open your mouth and start to take him in. You gather saliva in your mouth and run your tongue anti-clockwise to lubricate his cock. Bobbing your head, however, isn’t the easiest in this position. He takes care of the movement, however, by his driving his hips forward.

The head of his cock hits the back of your throat and you retch involuntarily. He gives you a nanosecond to regroup by partially pulling back, but repeats the motion. 

Now that you’re expecting it, you can anticipate it and control your gag reflex. You can’t tell if he would like it better if you continue to gag or if he likes that you can take him so deeply. With your arms held aloft your balance is compromised, so you have no control of the speed or depth while you’re blowing him.

Occasionally Mismatched Eyes stops thrusting. Not to give you a break, but to keep his cock deep in your mouth, with your nose pressed into his pubic bone and pale pubic hair. He keeps you in that position; he always waits just until you’re almost out of air before pulling back.

Each time he releases you, you gasp, and thicker strings of spit tether your mouth to his cock. When you look up his body, passed the military jacket and your own hands to his face, tears leak from the corners of your eyes. 

Then he face-fucks you again.

He was right. Rick is always right. The come dumped into by the others has trickled out, leaving your inner thighs slick and cold. The rug is going to need scrubbed, at least. He’s using you too hard and fast to swallow all the excess saliva, so your chin and neck—not to mention his groin and the tops of his pants—are slippery with it. If he hadn’t trussed your hands, you might have dropped one to finger yourself. You are filthy. You are a slut for him.

Despite the rough pace he’s set, you lock blurry eyes on his and moan around his cock.

That small noise and vibration does something to him, like turning a key in a lock.

Mismatched Eyes adjusts your wrists so one hand is pinching both above your head, and jerks his cock out of your mouth abruptly.

Your moan this time is of disappointment.

“L-lick my hand!” he orders. “Fucking lick it!”

He still has his glove on. You pay no heed to that and do as he demands, sucking each finger and coating each with spit. You use your tongue to do the same to his palm. The supple leather of the glove is salty from previously dried sweat and turns a darker brown, almost black, from the saliva your spread on it.

When you reach a point that he’s satisfied, he pulls his hand away from you and grabs his own cock.

You try to lean in to take him in your mouth again. With his hand on the base you can’t take it in as far, bur for a brief moment, he lets you work the head. 

Then he pulls away from you and commands, 

“Open your mouth!”

There’s no hesitation as you obey.

Mismatched Eyes finishes himself off, mimicking your mouth with his hand. With a drawn-out cry he comes in short bursts over your lips and chin and cheek. He’s also not as stoic as he wanted to seem: His knees buckle and he releases your wrists so he can steady himself with that hand on your shoulder. 

You let him take the time he needs. 

Sounds start to filter back to you. There’s the noise of zippers and buckles being fastened, and the inevitable banter that you were surprised the Ricks had stopped while you were doing Mismatched. Then again, maybe they hadn’t; you may have been too focused to pay attention.

Mismatched Eyes finally pulls himself together and straightens back up. You can almost imagine a small smile flitting across his face, but Eyepatch nudges a wet washcloth at you.

“Here, sweetcheeks—“

“I’m using it first,” Mismatched interjects, plucking it from his hands. 

“Yes sir,” you agree, and he glances dangerously at you, but decides you aren’t being sarcastic. 

He wipes himself down while you’re helped to your feet and when he’s done with it, he hands it to you. Pulling up his pants and tucking himself away, he doesn’t say a word about the large wet patch from your spit on the front, even though it must be cold.

Carefully, and fully aware the rest of you is sticky, you clean off your face. 

“You’re gonna need a sh-shower,” Cornrows tells you unnecessarily. “I could stick around-help you with that—“

“We gotta g-go,” Mismatched interrupts. “This was just pre-mission entertainment, pre-mission distraction, remember?”

“Maybe some other time?” you offer, squeezing Cornrows’ wrist.

With the exception of you, everyone is clothed now. Mismatched doesn’t say anything more, just extracts his portal gun and opens the swirling doorway on your wall. Shaved Head is the closest, but you skip to his side and whispering a thanks to him; he slaps your ass with a grin, tells you you’re a good lay, and disappears.

Like the oddest receiving line ever, you remain completely naked while each Rick shuffles passed you. Cornrows mentions the shower again, and tells you he’ll think of you the next time he’s taking one and jerking off before stepping through. You hug and plant a kiss on Eyepatch and tell him sincerely you’re glad he proposed this evening’s fun. Mohawk kisses you soundly, with a lingering of his lips that hints he, like Cornrows, would have liked to stay longer.

Each of them step through the portal when they’ve said their goodbyes.

Finally, it’s just you and Mismatched Eyes. Obvious wet spot in his crotch or not, the typical arrogant air of a Rick exudes from him again.

“Thank you for this evening, sir,” you tell him.

He smirks a little, and makes to leave as well.

You grab his elbow.

He stops, surprised. Surprising him even more, you slip a hand into his front pocket and tug your panties out. 

“Keeping these as a souvenir, sir? I hope they won’t be too much _distraction_ on your mission.” 

He glances down you, like he’s memorizing your body. “Maybe someday y-you’ll get the chance to get them back.”

“You know where to find me. Sir.”

You stuff your panties back into his pocket.

An actual smile crosses his face. 

You let him go and he is gone too, just like that. 

Ricks have a tendency to blow into your life and then out. Only a few return for another night of debauchery. You don’t mind; you’re the one flirting with and fucking them, after all. There are still an infinite number of them out there, and as sore and tired as you are right now—and as much as you need that long hot shower—you can’t wait to see which Rick may turn up next.

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Dear Reader, for sticking through to the end! I had a lot of fun with this. SEAL Team Ricks are some of my favorites and I wanted to show my appreciation (and may they RIP). I've also grown a wee bit attached to the set up; The Bar continues to be a good place to meet and hook up with Ricks throughout the infinite multiverse, so it may be revisited in the future with different ones . . . ;)  
> Thanks again!


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